White
by HarvestMoonRacoon
Summary: [Pink looked so beautiful against white. Just like her.] Some things haunt Rock Lee. Things like the color white.LeeSakura, vague character death.


**Author's Note: Oh, joy. Another angst LeeSaku. Well, go at it, people. **

White is the color of pain.

It's what flashes through your head when you get hit so hard the world spins dangerously, and you feel like you just died and were jolted back to your body.

It's the color of sterile bandages that cover bloody knuckles and arms that have been broken and left untreated. It's white that keeps infection and dirt out of those partially self-inflicted wounds.

White is the color of pus that festers in the cuts when you took off those unmercifully tight bandages for a day, just a day, trying to get away from the pain you live with every waking moment for a few hours.

And there's more white as you rebandage your arms again with the clean white gauze, and scold yourself for trying to escape your pain, because it will make you stronger then you already are.

White is the color of that clock on your wall, the one you sit in bed watching at night when you can't sleep because white flashes of pain are rushing through your head, and the white bandages are red with blood from working through the white-hot pain to fight the odds and become something to be proud of.

White is the color of stale hospital walls that close in on you and break you more then a sand demon in an arena. It's the color that seems to envelop your every sense, until it's all you see, hear, feel, taste.

White is the color of mourning clothes. You think she looks so pretty in a virgin color, pink hair all shimmering and spread out on the silken pillow beneath her head.

White is the color of the ceremonial carnation you lay within her coffin, along with every other person who loved and respected her. It's the color of the handkerchief you hand to her weeping mother as the funeral procession steps back to allow the burial to take place.

The white casket slides closed, and white-hot pain shocks your heart as you clench your fists so hard to keep from crying that your white bandages blossom crimson again.

In seconds, she's buried and gone, and it's White's Day when you finally bring yourself to bring a bouquet of white roses to lay on the freshly-turned dirt she lays six feet under.

It's a white marble tombstone, and the roses you brought pale in comparison to the wreaths of white carnations, chrysanthemums, and tulips left by her friends and families, because she was so loved and wiggled her way into everyone's heart, including yours.

And than, you notice it. A lone bouquet in the mounds of virgin white, as red as carmine dots on a pale face. You crawl to your knees and wonder at this lesson that really isn't a lesson. Tentative white bandaged fingers brush the petals of the love-lies-bleeding, hands quivering as your thoughts jumble into one coiling mass of emotions that can't contained.

And that's when you start to cry, and the floodgates of trying to hold everything in burst. Your white hands pound at the white stone, sending white shocks of pain up your arms to the heart pounding within your ribcage. White flowers scatter in shredded petals as you stomp and kick and scream to the heavens, why, why, why, why, why-

Why are you all stuck in this pantomime of violence so vile and unjust? Why did you have to lose the person you loved the most in the world; lose your dream, lose the flame in your soul, and loseyoursanityallinafewdayswhyohgodwhy-

White is the color of the world as your head strikes the ground, and you fall into a pile of limp, unanimated skin with white bandages stained with blood from taking out your anger on the unforgiving rock at your head.

And white is the color of the burning flashes of pain as you silently cry, too weak to even feel the wind as it carries away the carnage you created on those bouquets of white flowers. It would be beautiful, the cascade of white petals all around you, if you weren't too dead on the inside to think anything can ever be beautiful again. Thirteen was too young for her to die.

And white is the last color that blinks before your eyes as you fall asleep on her grave.

I've always hated white.

**A/N: Review, please? I'm not really happy with this one. It seems too- indescriptive.**


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